silly little pretty flower
by redcharcoal
Summary: A little story told in five parts, from five characters' different perspectives involving Andy, pottery and her intimidating boss. MirAndy - after a fashion. Genre is stealth angst.
1. Chapter 1

**EMILY**

Emily Charlton, newly promoted Associate Art Director was going to have a perfect week, thank you very much. She had already ordered the Kors samples her new superior, Nigel Kipling, needed before he'd asked for them, and had them all categorized and laid out on his table. The matching accessories, coming from Jocelyn's team, she'd already given the firm once over and knew even her intimidating Runway boss Miranda would probably find them "adequate".

In other words, they were glorious. Now she just needed to find…

"Hey Em…"

Emily looked up and pursed her lips. "Are you bothering me for some reason in the middle of my department's prep day?"

She dragged her scalding eyes over the First Assistant's outfit. Andy Sachs' wardrobe had come along in leaps and bounds since the art director had taken her in hand. She supposed the Chanel skirt and matching blouse were acceptable but … she peered closer. What WAS that on the edge of her jacket?

"No, uh, Nigel around?"

Emily shook her head curtly once, not bothering to answer the obvious. She peered closer. "Have you been wading through mud puddles? Embracing some plebeian tractor-pulling hobby? Is this some ode to your farm girl roots?"

Andy's face split into a wide grin and she laughed. "Don't knock tractor pulls till you've been there, done that. But no, why do you ask?"

Emily unfurled a derisive finger to point to the fine spatters on the edge of the jacket. "Trust you to think redneck boorishness is a worthy pastime. What IS that?"

Andy glanced down and gasped. "Oh hell. This must have been the jacket I had with me last Tuesday night! I've been taking pottery class on Tuesdays – you know, since Miranda now does that night home early with the girls every week, and since Nate left I've been so bored staring at the walls going stir crazy and it's giving me time to…"

Emily rolled her eyes and brought her hand up and then snapped it closed like a duck's bill in front of Andy's nose. "Stop speaking now. I just realised I don't care. Now for God's sake swap jackets before Miranda sees you. You're supposed to be a FIRST assistant – so start acting like it."

She grimaced as she saw Andy was now trying to flick and rub the dried spatter marks off the edge.

"Why do you need Nigel?" she demanded suddenly.

"Oh, a, um, a personal matter," Andy said and raised a weighty bag in her hand that Emily hadn't noticed before. The redhead stared at it, trying to work out what was in it.

"Something I can help with?" Emily tried not to sound interested and was pleased when her tone came out less curious and more like a withering insult. Impressive even for her.

Andy shook her head, unperturbed. "Personal stuff," she repeated. "Well I better swap my jacket over. I'll be in the Closet if you need me."

"Fat chance," Emily sniffed.

"Miss you too, Em." Andy laughed and left, shaking her head. Emily watched her go, slightly impressed that absolutely nothing she could say ever seemed to rattle the other woman. That much perk should be lethal in such strong doses. Surely the FDA should investigate.

No wonder Sachs was surviving the Dragon Lady – far better than most before her. At that seriously demoralizing thought, Emily's scowl deepened and she returned to the task at hand.

_A perfect week_. She was having a PERFECT week, she ordered herself._  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**NIGEL**

"So let's see it, Six, unveil the finished masterpiece." Nigel smiled benevolently at the excited first assistant and tried not to melt. Honestly, he was a cynical 44-year-old gay man, with the most caustic comebacks eternally on the tip of his tongue and he did NOT melt. Not even for young women with big brown eyes and adorable expressions as they almost quivered in happiness.

He watched as Andy gently pulled an object out of a brown paper bag. It was wrapped in a coarse flannel and she carefully unfolded it.

It was a piece of pottery, clearly home made, some sort of long cylinder - like a cup without a handle. On one side was the most gorgeous yellow flower, the glaze had cracked and blended in the most astonishing way to make it a 'wow' piece. Nigel knew a bit about pottery as part of his job – many designers had worked their ways through all forms of design and textiles. He knew that how a pot emerges from a kiln was always in the lap of the gods. A perfect glaze like this, though, was one in a million.

"Oh Six," he exhaled, before he could temper his tone back to cool. "It's stunning."

"Isn't it?" Her face was suffused with warmth and delight. "It's even better than I imagined. Your tips on the best colors to blend with this type of base clay were spot on."

"They were just tips," Nigel shrugged as he tenderly picked up the pottery piece, "What you did with them was make a thing of wonder. You're a natural."

"I don't know about that. This is the result of ten weeks of instruction and about 100 failed attempts," Andy grinned. "But it's gonna be perfect."

"Going to be? It's _already_ perfect. Well aside from the obvious rusticness I mean."

"Rusticness?" Andy's eyebrows lifted.

"I meant it's obviously not _professionally_ made." As Andy's shoulders sagged a bit, he added quickly, "oh don't give me that whipped puppy expression, I am saying it cannot look professional because it's not a mass-produced item. It looks handmade, with all its imperfections, because it _is_. And that's a good thing. To me at least."

Andy sighed happily. "OK, then. OK. Sooo, um, _right_. I'm going to do it then."

"Do what? What _is_ this for anyway?"

Andy grinned. "You're the best, Nige," she leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek and then began carefully rewrapping her creation. "I just didn't want to make a fool of myself and you've said it's OK, so I feel much more, um, confident."

Nigel frowned trying to follow his friend's ramblings. She sounded flustered and she hadn't answered his question. "Six, you're making about as much sense as Emily after her fifth appletini."

"Please, when do you go out drinking with Emily?"

Nigel smiled serenely. "I had to welcome her to my department in style. We all went out last month and got her singing God Save The Queen on top of Deano's bar."

"Oh my God. I'd have paid good money to see that!"

"Well I'd have invited you but it was a Tuesday night – and I know how much that new hobby of yours is getting your creative juices flowing. And if _that's_ the result," he flicked a finger towards the pottery, now being slid back into its bag, "then I'm all in favour."

"Thanks," Andy grinned. She glanced at her watch. "Oh my goodness – I have to run. Miranda needs her steak in, like, 20 minutes!"

Nigel watched her fly out of his office, a million questions dying on his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

**FIONA – AKA NEW GIRL**

Fiona Vanderhurst, otherwise now known as "Emily", watched as the first assistant came rushing into the office holding aloft a plate containing a steak. She almost laughed as Andy did a frantic dance of dropping scarf bags on her desk and then hurled herself into Miranda's office to quickly plate up the food.

Blowing hair out of her eyes, Andy rushed back to her desk and flopped down, looking haggard. Fiona smirked. Nice to see 'Miss Perfect' looking a little less well put together for once.

Being Miranda Priestly's second assistant was a trial by fire. Once Fiona had almost been fired, and it was only sheer luck – a distraction at a timely moment – that had prevented the axe from falling. That had been a month ago and she understood how things worked now. What not to do, what not to say, when to avoid the dragon. The art of being efficient yet invisible.

To hell she was going to get fired, though. Fiona had big, big dreams. She would BE Miranda Priestly some day. She could already picture herself in the older woman's swivel chair, whispering "That's all" to some stupid designer who didn't know anything about colour or stitching.

Fiona knew all about that. A graduate of a prestigious New York fashion design school, she had studied her ass off and ingratiated herself with a great many professors and contacts of her family to get her name put forward as Miranda's assistant.

Presently, as far as she could see, the only person standing in her way was Andy "Andreyyyya" Sachs. The woman was annoyingly down-home, always smiling and laughing – did she ever take anything seriously? Fiona wondered why the first assistant was even doing the job if all she ever wanted was to be a journalist. Not even a _fashion journalist._

So Andy Sachs was a big, annoying, distracting, overly smiley, fat roadblock in the way of Fiona's lofty ambitions. She had been subtly undermining her for a few weeks now. Letting slip to Miranda that a call here or there went unanswered while Andy was supposed to be at the desk. Miranda said nothing at this, merely slid her eyes coolly over Fiona.

Once Fiona had pretended to _be_ Andy and made a cock up with a lunch order. Instead of steak, some weird potato truffle dish had turned up for Miranda. Andy had denied everything though, batting those big brown eyes and the intimidating boss had merely eaten what was put in front of her without a word. She actually seemed to believe her.

Her eyes though had, again, flicked over to Fiona who found it greatly disconcerting. Had La Priestly mastered the art of reading minds? She thought not.

Nonetheless Fiona made a show of being extra efficient. Those unsettling eyes found something else to focus on before long.

Andy was now back at her desk, grinning like an idiot (yet again) and wrapping something in bright paper. It looked like pottery. Oh god, home-made. Fiona wrinkled her nose. It had some kind of big sunflower on it. How crass. Oh for God's sake – was she wrapping her boyfriend's birthday present in work time? If Miranda's imminent return was any earlier, she'd surely catch her slacking off? Maybe that was a firing offense? Fiona tossed her long blonde hair and glanced at the clock hopefully, willing the fashion editor to be early.

As if reading her thoughts, Miranda swept in and began barking orders: "New skirts from Armani in my office in one hour. The monstrosities from Leo do not bear speaking about. Is my lunch here?"

There was a pause as Miranda stopped and turned, catching Andy hiding something under her desk. Something brightly wrapped and definitely _not_ work related.

Fiona smiled inwardly. Oh yes, definitely not work related.

"M-Miranda," Andy said breathlessly, her eyes wide at having been caught. "Your steak's on your desk."

Miranda blinked slowly and studied the other woman. "What are you hiding?"

"H-hiding?"

"Beneath your desk. What are you up to when you should be working?"

"Oh, nothing." She smiled brightly.

Miranda did not return it.

"It didn't look like nothing. You are on the clock. I do not pay you to do arts and crafts in work time." The tone was distinctly chilly and Fiona was surprised icicles weren't shooting up the windows.

The editor walked into her office and lowered herself to her office chair, adjusting her plate and glass of Perrier water. She made no move to eat, though.

"Well?"

Fiona heard the curt tone slicing through the glass wall. She idly began wondering whether Andy's desk had more room than hers. _Hmm_. She could probably angle it more for better prime real estate.

She watched as Andy jumped up in surprise, obviously not realizing Miranda's diatribe was the prelude to an official tear down, to be continued in her office. Andy scampered beyond the glass walls and shut the door at Miranda's slashing finger prompt towards it.

_Damn_. Fiona would have given quite a lot of her sizeable trust fund to watch the fall of Miss Perfect. Especially since she was famously the only assistant to ever leave Miranda – during Paris Fashion Week no less – and return. Even if it was just half a day later, it was all any of the clackers ever talked about. Although Fiona wasn't around when it happened, she still found it slightly hard to believe.

No matter. Now - Fiona's lips twitched in anticipation - her number was probably up. She could almost smell the change in the frigid office air.


	4. Chapter 4

**ANDY**

Andy sat down after closing the door and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Miranda, you caught me." She placed a brightly wrapped package on the desk. "I didn't mean to upset you by fiddling with it."

Miranda stared at the package with disdain then flicked her eyes across to Andy. "I can assure you, the only upset I experienced was noting the perturbing lack of professionalism."

"Oh ... um. Well..." Andy blinked at Miranda. Was it really so bad to wrap a gift at her desk? _Really?_

"...Especially given you informed Emily yesterday that today was the anniversary of seeing that cook boy. I hardly think the workplace is the correct location to pretty up your romantic gifts."

"Miranda," Andy exhaled, suddenly grasping what the problem was, "Nate and I haven't dated since Paris. I told Em it _would_ have been our seventh anniversary, not that it was."

Andy's face fell. She couldn't believe she'd just said the one word that was guaranteed to thin Miranda's lips into a surly line. By some unspoken consent, they _never_ discussed Paris. Why Andy left or why Miranda took her back without a word.

"Then what's this for?" Miranda said, prodding the package with her pen as if it contained something diseased.

"Oh," Andy grinned. "I was going to give it to you when you were leaving tonight but, well, have it now. I made it in my pottery class. I-I go on Tuesday nights now, when you're – you know, now that you're … ah, you and the girls spend time together. And I thought of you. When I made it, I mean."

The pinched expression on Miranda's face when Andy mentioned the rare feat of having a night with the twins eased faintly.

"You can open it now, if you want." Andy bit her lip and watched her. "It's nothing really," she added, as she realised how presumptuous this was._ Oh God, what HAD she been thinking? You don't give Miranda Priestly home-made presents._

In the heartbeat between Miranda reaching for the present and touching it, Andy wished she could redo time and change her mind about all of this. She watched as perfectly manicured fingers plucked at the ends of the paper, and Andy's doubts billowed. She swallowed.

"I… um… if you don't like it, that's OK," she began to babble softly. "Really, it's fine. You can, um, just give it back to me, don't even say anything, I'll understand. But it's just something…"

"Andrea," Miranda exhaled in irritation, silencing the prattle instantly. Andy swallowed again and watched as the earthenware container was pulled out. Miranda slowly turned it in her fingers, studying every aspect of it with a discerning gaze as she rotated it.

When her eyes finally fell to the design, the bright yellow sunflower petals with the perfectly imperfect brilliant textured glaze, her lips gave the tiniest upward twitch.

She placed it on her desk. It gave a faint wobble. Andy winced that it wasn't entirely flat and her cheeks flamed red.

"Oh," Andy gasped. "I can, um, fix that. You just sand it down a bit and …"

"It's very … rustic," Miranda said with a pause and flicked guarded eyes back to Andy. The assistant's blush deepened and she looked down at her hands twisting in her lap. Miranda cleared her throat. "Why does this make you think of me?"

"Oh," Andy blushed. "It's so bright. It's a flower that's so, so bright. It shines. No one can help but look at it and be impressed, like they're drawn to it, you know? It's perfect but flawed but still wonderful."

"You feel I'm flawed?" There was a dangerous underlying tone to Miranda's cryptic question and Andy didn't know what to think.

"Um…" Andy wished a hole could open up in the floor beneath her. "Aren't we all?" she squeaked.

Miranda smirked and Andy could see amusement at last. "And what does it … do?" she asked, pointing at her acquisition with a quizzical expression.

"Oh, well it's a container," Andy said brightly. "You could put pencils in it, maybe."

"Pencils." Miranda lifted an eyebrow. Her eyes flicked around her desk pointedly. Pencil-free surfaces greeted Andy. _Oh_.

"Or pens. Red pens. You go through so many," Andy said and grinned cheekily, her eyes dancing. She couldn't believe she'd just dared say that.

"That I do," Miranda confirmed and her lips tugged again. "Andrea?"

"Yes Miranda?" Andy asked breathlessly.

"Take my steak and warm it up. It's gone cold during this show and tell over your ... " she waved her hand toward the pottery, "silly little pretty flower. That's all."

Andy gasped and tried not to let the crumpled look show on her face. She nodded, deflated, and mumbled "Yes, Miranda," grabbing the plate and rushing from the room.

As she passed Fiona she saw a shit-eating smirk she'd come to associate with her second assistant. _God. Could this have gone any worse?_

She was seriously, seriously regretting having opened her heart to Miranda with a gift she hoped would express ... well, everything. She'd foolishly thought Miranda would understand what she was trying to say. Andy was giving _herself_ to Miranda. Within the bright petals. Oh hell, it sounded ridiculous and juvenile when she thought of it like that.

She humphed to herself as she made her way to the kitchen microwave. And why did Nigel say it was stunning if it was just silly? And did she have to make a fool of herself? And why did Miranda have to be so viciously ... Miranda.

By the time she returned, her mood was bleak and she felt humiliated. She was briefly derailed in her despair when she found Fiona packing up her desk with an angry, red face.

Andy hurried and dropped the steak back on Miranda's desk, careful not to make eye contact or look at anything beyond her own feet or Miranda's desk.

She still could not believe she'd virtually poured her heart and soul into something only for it to be labelled "Show and Tell".

Miranda said nothing, and she heard her boss pick up her knife and fork. She hurried out again.

"What's wrong?" she asked the second assistant as she slid into her chair. She watched the blonde's shaky movements as she pummeled things into a small box. Fiona's version of packing looked more like a combat sport.

"She _fired_ me!" Jerky motions crashed more things into the cardboard.

"What?!" Andy's eyes went wide. "I was only gone five minutes!"

"Well she only needs five _seconds_."

"Why?" Andy gaped at the other assistant. For all her attitude and strange sly little looks, Fiona was actually a good assistant. She'd managed to not be threatened with firing more than once in three months.

"Oh yes, we sat down and had a lovely long chat about all Miranda's extensive reasons. Screw you, Sachs."

Andy's mouth fell open. "What did _I_ do?" She peered at Fiona in confusion and saw so much anger it was almost tangible.

"God, that sweet innocent act of yours has everyone else going – hell even _She_ buys it - but not me. You're as noxious as a prom queen's Walmart perfume."

Andy eyed her and counted to ten. OK, getting fired makes people say some things but still. She exhaled. "Seriously, Fiona, I have no freaking clue what you're talking about. How did your being fired become my fault?"

Fiona paused her rampage against desk items and glared at her. "Ask HER. And I know you think the sun shines out of her smug ass but she did just throw your stupid pottery flower thingy at me just to make a point, so maybe you should reassess that. She is 100% bitch through and through."

With that Fiona stood, just as security arrived. She gave the pair of guards a sneer and turned on heel and left, as they escorted her out.

Andy stared after her. Threw her pottery flower thingy? THREW IT?

"Andrea…" a voice floated from inside the office. Although 'float' probably wasn't quite the right word. It was hard and brittle.

Andy ran back inside, holding her notebook, her eyes flying around the desk looking for her gift.

"When you've done gossiping with the former help, I need you to do a run to Valentino. We need…"

Andy had stopped scribbling and was staring. Shards of yellow and brown glazed earthenware were piled in a heap on the desk's far corner. They'd been shoved to one side, out of the way, and based on the arc of debris, they had been clearly pushed aside by Miranda.

Miranda who had barely blinked and was talking like there wasn't a pile of precious pottery on her desk.

"You b-broke it?" she gasped.

Miranda paused mid instructions. A faint redness colored her cheeks. "There is business at hand," she whispered, but it lacked its usual sternness.

"I… if you didn't like it you could have said – I'd have kept it," Andy said, the hurt coloring her voice. "You didn't have to, I don't know, _smash_ it. Or throw it, or whatever."

Miranda's eyes hardened. "You believe I felt strongly enough about your little trinket to have wreaked willful destruction on it? Is that what you are suggesting? Really, Andrea. You place great weight on things that do not matter. I don't have time for this, especially now I am down one incompetent assistant."

Andy gaped at Miranda. "You don't have time for this? But it was a _gift!_" She wished she could bite her tongue out. She had not meant to reveal that at all. But her outrage was reaching magnificent heights. She couldn't believe how foolish she'd been. As if Miranda gave two shits about her. She'd all but just revealed that fact.

Miranda paused and her cheeks seemed even redder. "I did not ask you to, to give me anything. I ask only that you do your job. That's ALL I need. Failure to understand this simple task… "

"I know," Andy sighed. "I know. You'll fire me like Fiona."

"Andrea," Miranda ground out and her face took on an oddly strained expression, "You are _nothing_ like that creature. Count yourself lucky."

"Lucky," Andy repeated dully. "I see. Well, I'll be going."

"What? I haven't finished…"

"Yeah, you have. I didn't get it before, but now I do."

Miranda's brows knitted together. "What, Andrea?" she demanded harshly. "What exactly is it that you now 'get'."

Andy fingered a shard of pottery which had the largest piece of sunflower on it. "I thought you were someone else, and that's why I went back to you. To _you_. Not Runway. In Paris."

She lifted the piece and turned it to Miranda. "A flower is very beautiful but it's fragile. It has to be treated with care for it to thrive. You don't kick it. You don't hurt it. Otherwise it dies."

She dropped the chard and looked directly into her boss's eyes. "Do you need two weeks' notice? Given how things ... are ... maybe I should just go?"

She didn't bother to hide the sheen of tears in her eyes. The hurt. Pain. She'd mend her broken heart at home. But not here, under her boss's unfeeling gaze.

"Andrea?" The voice this time was strangled. "I…" Miranda stopped. She sighed heavily. "You can leave when you wish." Her hand waved towards the door. "I will not stop you."

Andy got the hint. "OK," she nodded. She sniffed and looked at Miranda sadly. "I'll miss …" She didn't finish the sentence. Saying 'I'll miss who I thought you were' was probably a little too insulting. And Andy wasn't cruel. Even though Miranda deserved it. Her only relief was she'd never told her how many weeks and weeks she'd put into her precious gift. Now _that_ would have been humiliating.

She left the office and felt Miranda staring at her the entire time as she packed up her meagre things. Done, she glanced back to see Miranda still looking at her impassively, eyes hooded.

She lifted a hand sadly, a halfhearted farewell, as she hefted the small box under her other arm. Miranda watched her go and did not move even a muscle. Her face seemed set in stone. Nothing.

_Well OK then._ She guessed she shouldn't be surprised. She wiped the wetness from her eyes and left, trying to raise her chin. Nonetheless, tears splashed on the floor of the Runway offices as she made her way to the exit.


	5. Chapter 5

**MIRANDA**

Miranda Priestly had never been more enraged by an assistant in 30 years of publishing - and that was saying something. Oh she'd been offended by a great many of them, bored by some, revolted by a few, and gravely disappointed in virtually all of them. Through it all, though, only one assistant had come close to actually _affecting_ her - Andrea Sachs in Paris last year - during her ridiculous brain snap that robbed Miranda of her presence for an anxious 12 hours. But, mercifully, the doe-eyed girl had regathered her not inconsiderable wits and reappeared just when Miranda was beginning to admit she was starting to fret.

To her chagrin, Miranda had barely waited a heartbeat before allowing her back inside her Paris suite with a cold, arched eyebrow that hid her enormous relief. They didn't even speak of it – not then, not now. The less said about it, the less likely Miranda was inclined to have to remember that it had actually happened at all. Which was how she liked it: Nothing to see here, move along. And if there was, something more, something else, something indefinable, that set Andrea apart from the rest in Miranda's eyes, well, it's not like they had to actually acknowledge it or, God forbid, talk about it.

But, while Andrea had affected her the most of any assistant to date, she had not ever seriously angered her. Not even that time she had startled her mid fight with her second, now ex, husband. She had been more shocked and embarrassed than furious.

No, for white-hot, incendiary rage, that honor rested with the wicked blonde creature who had stood in her office not ten minutes ago. The insolent upstart had been lucky to escape with her neck unthrottled. Firing had been far too good for her. Miranda had already mentally added her name to every black list she could think of and was prepared to start quite a few more if need be.

That deceitful troll, "Emily" - for Miranda refused to give her the respect of calling her by the name she was born under - had waltzed slyly into the office on some idiotic pretext after Andrea had left to reheat her steak.

Miranda, of course, had had little choice but to send Andy off to do the unnecessary heating task because the editor feared she was about 10 seconds away from unravelling and producing an unfortunate emotional display. And there was no way in hell she would stand for having a witness to that.

She'd already endured the sad empathic puppy eyes from this particular assistant in Paris after she'd let her guard down once before. She wasn't entirely sure she could face trembling, plump lips ever again without acknowledging something more between them. Besides, her dignity couldn't stand it. To unravel publicly once was unfortunate. Twice would be careless.

Miranda tapped her glasses against her lower lip and stared in shock at the seat Andrea had just vacated. Her eye fell to the earthenware piece left behind. It was almost glowing, thanks to the sun hitting it _just so_ – like the damn thing was mocking her faulty emotional state.

Why did Andrea have to go and do _that_, she asked herself for the tenth time. Had they not already reached an agreement, without words of course, to never pull certain things into the light? Things best kept unnoticed or at the very least unnamed? Denial only works with complicity on all sides.

When she'd first seen Andrea furtively wrapping it at her desk, the uncharitable thoughts that went through her head - that it was a gift destined for the unworthy fry cook - had filled her with irritation. Then it annoyed her she was actually annoyed. What Andrea chose to do out of work hours, was her own business.

Except this was _in_ work hours. Her temper had flared. But, bare seconds later, to discover it was a gift for her – _well_.

And then she had seen it. Her breath had caught.

Andrea's silly little pretty flower had been a complete revelation. She had immediately detected in the construction, the design, the careful selection of colors, and the perfectly cracked glaze, many hours and hours of work. She could see a glimpse of the heart of its maker - the open, honest affection that had gone into it, laid bare.

And she had given it to _Miranda_.

_Dear God. What was she going to do with her?_ What was with this youthful insistence of turning emotional clods over for all to see what lay underneath? Her heart thudded painfully as she ran her fingers over the glaze.

She knew immediately this was the most thoughtful and beautiful gift she had ever received. Even her daughters, with their handmade Mother's Day cards each year, while producing cherished memories, had not stolen her breath the way Andrea's present had.

Somehow she had managed to hide her visceral response. She was astonished, thinking back, that she had actually been able to articulate short sentences. And she recalled she had almost laughed aloud at Andrea's suggestion for using the cup for storage of her red pens. _Cheeky thing._ She had hid her smile by only the thinnest of margins.

But oh _how_ beautiful this simple piece of pottery was. It glowed. And Andrea's eyes glowed right along with it, warmth and hope warring for real estate.

_Oh God._ Her pending emotional display surged closer. If Miranda had been harsher than she meant to be in ejecting Andrea, it was only to hasten the girl's exit so she could process, alone, what this meant. What Andrea wanted her to know.

Miranda swallowed harshly at the expression on Andrea's face as she had rushed from the room, ludicrously clutching a plate of meat. The editor exhaled heavily. She had not meant to imply this was nothing.

Far from it.

Far, far from it.

The silly girl had managed to get under her skin once again and it was getting harder and harder to pretend otherwise. At that moment it was almost torturous trying to regather her free-falling, flailing wits when Andrea's wide, big, emotional eyes were anywhere near her vicinity.

She pursed her lips as the memory rolled forward. Even more unsavory than Andrea's distressed departure had been the almost instant arrival of "Emily".

The girl had the timing and personality of a flesh-eating virus with the insight of a single-cell amoeba. She did not recall the precise nature of "Emily's" pretext to enter her sanctuary. She did recall what she said next, though.

In an attempt to curry favor, she had pretended to just notice the pottery construct and then made a sniffy remark about bargain bins and down-home offerings from a farm girl. She laughed, assuming that Miranda's wealthy lifestyle meant she was an automatic ally in sneering at all things basic or home-made.

Miranda had seen red. Not only was her assistant incapable of recognizing genuine beauty, but incapable of understanding it should never be mocked no matter its form. And for that matter a gift giver should never be a subject of derision, so long as the gift was heartfelt.

Miranda knew she was known to be heartless and lacking in empathy, and she supposed in many aspects of life this was so. But when it came to pure, unsullied things of substance, she was their biggest defender. Whatever their form. _Whoever_ their form.

The impudent creature had been too stupid at first to realize Miranda wasn't silently laughing along with the insults, but actively seething. Miranda could barely trust herself to speak, and her knuckles had begun whitening around the water glass she hadn't even realised she was clutching.

Finally, at Miranda's extended frosty silence, "Emily" may have understood that her views were not shared, and had immediately switched tactics and attempted to run down Andrea's work habits. She even slipped and called her "Andreyyyya".

And that was the moment she knew for sure.

Oh, Miranda had been onto her from the first. Initially it was just a sneaking suspicion as she had no real proof. And she did not object to the truffled potatoes dish she'd received – privately it was one of her favorites that she often ordered at home. Besides, Andrea would never lie about not placing that order.

A discreet call to the kitchens had discovered someone referring to herself as "Andreyyya" had made the call. Miranda had come across slithering snakes like this assistant before. She could see it in her eye. Ambitious. Hungry. Ruthless.

All the things Andrea was not.

So, she had watched closely, biding her time, waiting for her to slip up, expecting the downfall to be especially satisfying for the throat-ripping she was certain would soon result.

The moment she had uttered the name "Andreyyya" Miranda's eyes narrowed.

"I knew it was you," she whispered. "All along. The wrong meal order. Do you take me for a fool?"

"I…" "Emily" had shaken her head. "It was Andy. Obviously. I mean she's not always so perfect when you're not around. Doing private things in work hours – you saw that!"

The desperation in the girl's tone, the way her eyes suddenly darted nervously, would normally have filled her with a predatory glee at a prey so close to offering up its jugular. But this time, Miranda was beyond cheap thrills. This creature had tried to defile something of beauty. Twice. Both the pottery – and Andrea.

She shot her arm out to point to the door and hiss her "You're fired" line. In her haste and agitation, her ferocious finger hit the beautiful flower cup in a sweet spot and propelled it directly towards the assistant's head. Given how perfect the trajectory was, Miranda had no doubt it looked like she'd just thrown it straight at her. Miranda decided not to disabuse her of the notion – she had a devil's reputation after all.

"Emily" had ducked easily out of the way and offered an incredulous, dark look. They both then stared at the floor at the shattered pieces of earthenware.

"Told you it was a pile of crap," the creature snarled as she turned tail and stormed out, not before stomping on one corner of the fragments and slamming the door on the way out.

If Miranda could have fired her twice, she would have. If she could have stomped on her head with her Prada heels simultaneously, she would have done that, too. She tried to reign in her impulse to threaten her with an unholy reign of terror and instead picked up the phone to call security. She would maximize the insult of being fired. She insisted on two guards and was tempted to tell them Fiona Vanderhurst was armed, dangerous and threatening to blow up the building.

She could hear in the outer office the sounds of the assistant moodily packing up her things.

With a shuddering sigh, she dropped her eyes back to the floor. To the broken pieces of Andrea. She stopped. She hadn't meant to think that.

Her heart spasmed painfully and she glared at the shards. _This would not do._

Miranda lowered herself sorrowfully to her knees and scooped up every single shard and placed them in a pile on her desk. Then she sat numbly at her desk and stared at it.

She heard the door open, saw Andrea rush in, looking anywhere but at her, put the steak down, and rush out again. She swallowed, relieved for the brief reprieve that the girl hadn't noticed yet.

She heard the ungrateful assistant's exit speech and her entire equilibrium tilted. She had to focus. Maybe she could just do a little work first, get her wits back, and then figure out how to explain. She just needed, maybe, five minutes.

But Andrea had formed her own conclusions. Miranda had _willfully_ destroyed the pottery was the first accusation. Miranda could not believe her ears. _This_ was what she thought of her? THIS? Even after Paris? After everything they didn't speak about that they had shared, she still saw her as the Devil? She never once asked, "Miranda, what happened to my gift?" It was all instant accusations and outrage.

Her lips thinned and her heart sank. Miranda had no reserves. She couldn't deal with this now. She became more and more numb and realized she was at a loss as to what to do next. She sat frozen and detached, unable to quite believe it was happening, as the silly girl who had brought smiles into her office and warmed her with her mere presence, packed up quietly and left.

She sat, unmoving for a long time. She wished she could fire "Emily" three times over. She picked up her phone and ordered two new assistants from HR, and added Fiona's name to the master blacklist from hell. The one that condemns its listees to move countries if they ever expect to work in a reputable business again.

* * *

It took all of three minutes for it to do the rounds that Andrea was gone.

It took all of five minutes for Nigel to appear.

"Why?" he asked in a strained voice the moment his charcoal Armani suit had rounded her office door. Like she had to answer to him. She looked at him sourly and tried to think of something biting to say. She came up a blank. Her mind was doing that a lot lately.

"Nigel," she huffed in irritation. "I wasn't aware we had a meeting."

"We …" he trailed off as he took in the pile of pottery on the left of her desk. "Oh no," he whispered and his face paled. He blinked at her, aghast. "You didn't!"

"Et tu, Nigel!" she hissed. "Does everyone around here think I'm such a monster I'd …" she gestured at the pile.

"Then why's it broken? Six spent weeks and weeks on that thing."

Miranda pursed her lips. Just as she'd suspected. She folded her arms and glared at her friend. "It was an accident while I was in the throes of firing my second assistant – a creature who shall have to go to Iceland to get another job in fashion. Which is somewhat unfortunate because I rather like Iceland."

"That bad?" Nigel asked, wincing.

"Worse. She thought to get into my good graces by …" She ground to a halt. By running down Andrea. By insulting her gift. No matter how she phrased it, it still sounded as damning as the rest. She felt she may as well put a sign on her head saying "Soft on Andrea". She huffed. "…By saying certain statements I knew to be untrue."

"I see," said Nigel, rocking back on his heels. He looked none the wiser though. "And after her lies you accidentally broke the most beautiful and raw piece of pottery I've ever seen in my life? And I've seen some incredible works by the masters in Kyoto. The colours in Andy's work though ... I mean even if she fluked it, it was still…"

"Yes," Miranda ground out sharply, interrupting, willing him to shut the hell up.

"And then Andy just quit?" Nigel frowned. "But why? Wouldn't she understand you didn't mean to do it?"

Miranda's lips tightened and he rolled his eyes.

"You didn't _tell_ her?!"

"She didn't give me a chance. She was going on about flowers dying without tender care or some such riddles and before I knew it she'd packed up her desk and left."

"Uhmm…"

Miranda stared at him in irritation. "You're her friend - if you can translate 'Andrea speak' for me, feel free. But she seems to have decided that it's within my nature to do such random acts of destruction so I felt somewhat aggrieved and just let her … go." She flapped her hand toward the door as though shooing an errant cat. Her eyes though were stormy and she felt more disturbed than she had in years.

"Somewhat aggrieved?" Nigel raised his eyebrows. He whistled. "What a mess. So you're gonna let her cool down and explain and then get her back?"

"Now why would I want to do that? She's now left me _twice_, Nigel." She glared at him and she felt some satisfaction when he wilted a little. "Regardless of the reasons, if I let her come back, it sends a certain message. We both know that."

Nigel looked at her thoughtfully and said nothing for a minute. Then he sighed and nodded. "OK, so those proofs for page 143: We'll need to call in some favors. What are your thoughts on using Alistair Yiap?"

Miranda swiveled her chair and faced the window, grateful he had changed the subject, but now more bereft as it sunk in that Andrea was now gone. _Really_ gone this time.

"Leave it with me," she whispered, still staring outside. "No metallic of course," she added faintly. "That was overkill in his line. And send me your assistant. I'll need to borrow her for a few weeks to train someone new to assist me."

"Right. Emily'll probably enjoy cracking the whip again for a bit. She's had no one to yell at and berate for the longest time."

Miranda tried to almost smile at the half joke but failed. She felt a pressure on her chest that she couldn't explain but she knew it shouldn't be there. She spun her chair back to face Nigel. When she spoke, it was barely audible at all.

_"That's all."_

* * *

The reference Miranda wrote for Andrea had been spectacular, at least by the editor's standards. The girl had gotten the job at The Mirror, at least if the bylines beginning to regularly appear were anything to go by.

Miranda noted the young journalist had been progressing steadily, the stories going from obits and relatively small fillers to profiles on small-rung politicians and local businessmen. She was pleased for her even as she missed her a great deal - not that she'd admit that even under pain of torture.

She had toyed with the idea of making contact, explaining. But as the days turned to weeks, and then months, she missed her chance. Now it would seem weak. She'd even considered sending her a bunch of sunflowers when she got her first page one byline, but the impulse wore off. Like Paris, sunflowers were now not a thing to be discussed. Ever.

And besides, there was the real risk it might not be seen as an apology but something sneering or cruel. Given Andrea's ability to believe she was without compassion, it was not a risk Miranda was prepared to take. So, instead of an apology or an explanation, she contemplated how best to help her along.

At times she sent certain people with stories her way, ensuring the young journalist was starting to be talked about as a breaker of news. She found, as she picked up her newly subscribed Mirror off the front step each morning, that she gained pleasure in watching the other woman's success. Even if it was from afar.

They had not crossed paths again. At first, Miranda had assumed they mixed in different circles. But lately she'd started to suspect it was deliberate. There had been more than a few galas Andrea had pulled out of attending when Miranda had RSVPed in the affirmative.

It saddened her, she admitted, if she really searched her heart, especially given she wasn't used to having regrets. If she could do one thing over, she decided, it would _not_ be to explain her own actions in breaking Andy's gift. Rather, at the moment she first unwrapped it, she would tell her how beautiful it was and how honored she was to be given something so wondrous.

But Miranda had become used to disappointment in herself and often wondered how she had turned into her own mother. A woman who praised sparingly and sneered widely.

She sighed. _Again_. The girls had obviously noticed her sadness lately and had been poking and prodding for some time as to the cause. It was Cassidy who finally worked it out. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised as the little girl was very observant.

"Where's Andy?" Cassidy asked suddenly over dinner. Her eyes went wide as she did the maths. "We haven't seen her in ages…"

Miranda had dropped her fork and then, quite accidentally, knocked her water glass. Both her girls had then stared at her – clumsiness was never her vice – until her youngest daughter frowned.

"Oh my god," Cassidy whispered. "It's _her_. She's the reason! I'm right aren't I? It all makes sense."

Caroline had tilted her head and had some silent conversation with her twin.

Miranda had merely puffed out a breath and rose to go to the sink.

"What reason?" she said, wondering why she even bothered to deny it. She was tired, so very tired of pretending that some things that matter, don't. Hadn't she said some lie like that to Andrea? Something about her placing 'great weight on things that do not matter'?

Except they _did _matter. Everything about that day, that moment in time, it turned out it _mattered_. She'd been kidding herself to think anything else.

"Mommm," Cassidy accused. "You miss her, and now she's not here."

Miranda tore off some paper towels to mop up her water as she considered how to answer.

"Did you fire her?" Caroline interjected in a shocked voice. "Mom! How _could_ you? She was the nicest assistant you ever had. She didn't even get us into trouble when we… OW!"

Miranda's eyebrow lifted and she turned to see her oldest daughter now rubbing her ribs and sending a dagger glare to her sister.

"Caroline? 'When we' what?," she asked silkily, relieved for the distraction.

"Nothing," Caroline scowled. "She was nice and you fired her, that's all."

"I did no such thing," Miranda said, mopping up the water with jerky movements. "She quit. I even gave her a nice reference. She has a job at The Mirror now."

Cassidy folded her arms and stared at her, unflinchingly. "Well what did you do to her then to make her quit? Because I know she liked working at Runway, she told us so."

"When did she inform you of this?" Miranda asked in surprise.

More silent twin conversation.

"When she dropped off the book," Caroline finally admitted. "At night we sometimes waited up. We like to ask her about her day, and what you did as well. And she loved talking about that. About you."

Cassidy nodded adamantly. "We think she genuinely liked you and so that's why we talked to her. She wasn't like the others who just try to suck up or hide from us or pretend we don't exist. So? What did you do to her?"

"I broke something of hers that mattered," Miranda said tiredly. She was over pretending. She threw the ruined paper towel into the rubbish and returned to the table.

"What was it?" Caroline asked, eyes wide.

"Something she'd made for me. It doesn't matter. But she thought I didn't want it and I'd broken it on purpose."

"What happened to it?" Cassidy prodded this time.

Miranda blushed faintly. "I accidentally threw it at an assistant," she confessed. "Not Andrea. An evil one."

Both twins snickered until they realised their mother hadn't joined in.

Caroline stopped smirking and tilted her head. "No, Mom, Cass meant what happened to Andy's thing after you broke it?"

And that was the moment Miranda had her brilliant idea.

* * *

The Mirror had been running a long-running series on rich and famous identities called My Favorite Things. Celebrities gathered 20 of their favorite items together for a photo shoot and explained in gushy detail why they liked them. Generally CEOs of low level companies and some politicians got involved. As a result a lot of big-screen TVs and Lamborghini car keys tended to make the lists. Usually no one lofty ever participated.

Which was why when Miranda Priestly's assistant rang to inform Greg Hart, editor of The Mirror, that Miranda Priestly was available to be part of his "ridiculous column", the man almost wet his pants. (Or so she was reliably informed later, by the photographer attending.)

The newspaper photographer, Derek something, gathered the items she had selected together on her desk. A picture of her daughters. A fountain pen from a famous opera singer. A letter from a younger Miranda to herself – no the photographer could NOT read it or run its contents - a small pearl ring her grandmother had left her …. And so on it went. Then she pushed forward a small pottery container, with a striking yellow flower on it, filled with red pens.

Faint lines, barely evident, showed it had once been broken and repaired extremely well some time ago.

"This one," she said, imperiously, "Must be front and center. It's a highly valued possession."

"That thing?" the man asked in surprise but his expression was promptly erased when she shot him her iciest look. "Why?" he asked weakly.

"I will discuss that with the journalist when she attends."

"You mean Paula Grey? Nah, she's not doing this one. The boss said some younger reporter was covering this job. Sorry – I know everyone loves to meet Paula."

Miranda wanted to roll her eyes until they spun back into her head. Not _everyone_ wanted to meet Paula, no matter how much of an institution the elderly journalist was.

"Andrea Sachs was supposed to be attending," she said impatiently. "Will she be here soon?" Miranda glanced at the clock. "I have a meeting next and…"

He shrugged. "Not my department, sorry," he said. "OK a few more snaps, look right, OK, last one. Look up." Click. "Last one. A little more to the left." Click. "Last one."

"You have a decidedly backward understanding of what that phrase means," Miranda snapped.

He shrugged and gave a sheepish smile. "Well, I'm done, I'll call the office and find out how far off the reporter is, OK?"

Miranda nodded. Her fingers stroked her favored pottery piece and she clasped it in her hands as she turned to face the window. She heard him leave.

She wondered what exactly she'd say to Andrea. It had been, well, almost six months.

A young woman huffed in and Miranda immediately turned, her nostrils flaring at some intrusive cheap perfume.

"Oh goodness, so sorry I'm late. The traffic here is killer. OK, wanna run me through your 20 things? Oh I'm Trudy by the way."

The hand, encased in bangles, that extended over the desk was promptly ignored and Miranda stared at her in dismay. "You are NOT Andrea Sachs. I specifically requested Andrea do the writing component."

"Yeah well, Andy's a friend and she thought I'd be better suited – she said we, as in you and me, would get on like a house on fire. Anyway, I owed her one. She's on deadline with the school budget overspending story and, so, here I am."

Miranda peered at the freckle-faced intruder as though she had two heads. The garish mix of polyester and fusion of colors told her Andrea was either having some form of mental break or that she thought this entire exercise was some sick joke.

She sighed and contemplated her options. So, now she knew Andrea still thought Miranda capable of perpetrating violence upon beauty.

She tapped her lip with her finger. And stared at the interloper with cool, appraising eyes. Then she decided.

"You will write exactly what I say, and then you can read it back to me before it goes to press," Miranda decreed. "If any word is out of place I will pull this story."

"Well, see, I love your chutzpah Ms Priestly, but you can't actually pull a story. Only my editor has the power to…"

Miranda gave her her most evil stare. "Your editor already reneged on our deal to provide me with the journalist of my choosing."

"Well to be fair," Trudy interrupted, "He didn't know Andy swapped me in today."

"Nonetheless," Miranda growled, "This is how it's going to be. Failure to do this will not be pleasant for you or your boss."

Trudy, bright thing that she was – both literally and metaphorically – had the good sense to swallow and nod.

"Item one," Miranda whispered, and gently, so, so, gently, placed the pottery back on the desk. The red pens rattled. "Item one is the most valuable possession I own. It was broken once, in a dreadful accident and I mourned its loss instantly. I immediately had it glued back together by experts. But, over time, in its imperfections I'm reminded of what made it beautiful to start with. We all have flaws, and this item embraces them, instead of hiding them away. I value it as much as the very special person who gave it to me."

* * *

It was raining by the time Miranda made it home, and dark so she almost missed the shadow huddled on her door step. She nearly jumped in fright, before the shadow took shape. No, not a mugger. In fact a female form.

It lifted its head and Miranda gasped. "Andrea?"

"Did you mean it? Or was that just PR spin to make yourself sound deep and interesting." The voice was low but unmistakeably her former assistant. Her heart skipped about three beats but she stilled her face to hide her shock.

Miranda beckoned for Andy to stand and she unlocked her front door.

"Come inside. It's too wet to do this on the doorstep."

"Do what?" Andrea asked and Miranda could see a tiredness in her features. Like she was over this ache or whatever it was between them. "Just yes or no. Don't jerk me around."

"Of course I meant it, don't be ridiculous," Miranda huffed. "When have I ever said something I don't mean?"

Even with her answer though, the other woman lingered uncertainly, and her face searched Miranda's for the truth.

"Come inside," the older woman repeated again. "It's dark and wet. How long have you been sitting out here impersonating a drowned rat anyway?"

"Long enough," Andy replied and sneezed.

Miranda closed the front door behind them and led her into the family room, relieved to see the fire was blazing, thanks to her housekeeper.

"Stay here, thaw out. I'll find a towel," Miranda said. She saw wide brown eyes watching her in confusion, her face still searching. "Warmth first, answers second."

Andy nodded and shivered.

Half an hour, and one shower later, Andrea was curled up on Miranda's couch, in a borrowed pair of yoga pants and a warm thick top from Miranda's wardrobe. Dark, serious eyes turned and bored into hers, as Miranda settled herself on the couch beside her.

"Trudy read out the quote to me," the brunette said without preamble. "I thought it had to be a trick. Then she showed me the photo Derek took. Red pens!" she exclaimed, her voice faintly awed. "You're keeping red pens in it."

"Well of course," Miranda smiled. "I do try to indulge bright ideas when someone actually has one. I'm not that much of a tyrant."

Her smile faded.

"Like _I_ thought you were?" Andy mumbled. "I didn't know it was an accident. I just … and when Fiona said you'd thrown it…"

Miranda's eyes narrowed. "I certainly did not throw it. I realize that's probably what it looked like from her vantage point but it was entirely unintentional. And I wouldn't take anything that cretin uttered as factual. There's little wonder she now works in retail," Miranda's lip curled.

"Right," Andy said. "Why didn't you just tell me that? I mean, an accident I could have handled, you know?"

Miranda looked pained. Well. She supposed it was now or never. She fiddled with the dress ring on her right hand. "I was wrong not to have told you immediately. And I am appalled I never told you how beautiful your gift was and how shattered I felt when it lay in pieces in front of me. And how it broke my heart when you looked at me like I had done it on purpose."

Andy looked at her with wide eyes. "Y-you thought it was beautiful? Really?" she squeaked.

"As beautiful as the giver. I have always thought so."

"M-Miranda?" Andy was now staring at her like she was talking in Latin.

"I apologize if this makes you uncomfortable, so I'll just say my piece and I understand if you want to go. I know I'm not much of a catch - a twice-divorced mother of two," she gave a brittle laugh. "I know this. I know how old I am and all the reasons that I could never have approached you in a more … intimate way when we worked together. I might be old and a dreadful prospect with an awful dating record but I am also not a fool – I know second opportunities come around rarely. So Andrea, I will admit that I felt something more for you, ever since Paris, and I thought you did too. But then you were gone and I never got the chance to tell you. "

Andy stared at her with wide eyes.

"Ah," Miranda said and winced, her heart breaking. "I have misread the situation. I-I … misunderstood. I'll just, I …" She made to rise.

"No," Andy said and slid closer to her, pulling her back down beside her. "You didn't misunderstand. I just … I'm having a hard time grasping your feelings for me may be more than platonic."

"Does that … disturb you?" Miranda eyed her anxiously.

"Idiot," Andy whispered. "How can someone so smart and incredible be so dense? What did you _think_ my gift was about?"

Miranda shot a faux glare at her. "Well if this is going to degenerate into abuse," she said with a trademark huff, even as her heart lifted.

Andy laughed. She then leaned forward and pressed her lips against Miranda's and the editor felt herself turn to liquid.

"I had no idea you felt this way," Andy murmured, "I mean I had hoped but after what you said and did that day, I thought it was just me. You keep a secret well."

"Self-preservation," Miranda whispered back and let her fingers drift down Andy's top. "And I regret a great deal of my actions that day. It was not my finest hour. Would it be acceptable if I touched you elsewhere?"

Andy bent her cheek against Miranda's neck. "Very acceptable."

Miranda let her hand wander against soft curves, just light and teasing._ Very acceptable indeed._

* * *

Miranda Priestly held her young lover tenderly in her arms, woken by her usual internal clock at 5am. Dawn would come soon, and she'd have to rouse Andrea and leave the comfort of her arms. But Miranda was in no hurry.

Last night, as they had every night for the past three weeks, Andrea had shared her heart and body and soul with her. She'd been completely open and vulnerable as she rocked against Miranda, soft cries bleeding into the long night, before she came with a whispered, shaky, "Miranda".

Miranda had withdrawn her wet fingers and trailed them up the bared, heated skin and kissed her hungrily. Finally her fingers combed through soft, brown hair as she petted the young woman she now knew she loved. Had always loved. She knew it was that _thing_ they'd never talked about that she was too afraid to look at after Paris.

"Andrea," she'd whispered, pressing their naked bodies together.

"Mmm," the younger woman replied sleepily. "Too early. Back to sleep."

"I understand what you were trying to tell me."

"Hnng."

"Wake up darling," Miranda kissed her chin, then nibbled a trail down her neck. "The gift you gave me. I understand."

Andy's eye cracked open. Then shut again. "Mmmph?"

"You were giving me your heart that day. Declaring yourself, your feelings for me? The flower, the bright, flawed, yellow flower, it was meant to be you, wasn't it?"

"Did you just figure that out?" Andy mumbled and rubbed herself closer. "Honestly. Some brilliant, beautiful editor you are. Did you really not get that the first time?" She supplied a sloppy sleepy kiss somewhere near Miranda's jaw. "Now- 'is cold. Hold me."

"My silly little pretty flower," Miranda sighed with enormous satisfaction. "I love you, too."


End file.
